


Flash Forward. Stop.

by Anonymous



Category: Sports RPF, Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sickfic, Terminal Illnesses, author has ordered a ride to church
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24036634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Rafa starts to forget the little things. Roger worries.
Relationships: Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal
Comments: 19
Kudos: 53
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _buckle up, this one is going to be sad._  
>    
> i already have a general outline and draft of how this fic will go so expect updates soon :)  
> i want you to read the tags slowly before reading! this is a work of fiction and none of these will happen in real life (i'm speaking that into existence). 
> 
> as always, comments are good for the heart and are always appreciated <3

_Play._

"We're getting on in years," Roger says one day.

Rafa looks at him. "Yes, that's what happens when you live for a while."

"Hmm."

"What is it?"

Those eyes he loves—still brilliant and dark as always, even after all this time—crinkle as he smiles. "It's funny. I never thought my life would happen like this. If someone told me that I would grow old with you when I was younger… I'd have laughed at them. But here we are."

"Here we are," Rafa agrees. He pauses. "Having regrets, Federer?"

"Ouch, last name," he jokes, pretending to flinch away. "But no. No regrets, Raf. You?"

Rafa smiles. "None at all."

And when they kiss, it doesn't matter how old they are—it still feels exactly the same as the first time their lips met, twenty years ago.

_Flash forward._

Rafa stood in front of Roger. "I can't find my glasses."

Roger peered through his newspaper and raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. "Where'd you put them?"

Rafa scrunched his nose. "I don't remember."

Roger places his newspaper back on the table. "All right, I'll help you look. I guess you'll need them if you want to look at my beautiful self."

Rafa smirks. "Yes, that's exactly it."

Moments later, Roger calls him into the bedroom. "You left them on the nightstand," he says. "Did you really not check here first?"

"I suppose I'm going senile," he murmurs with a small smile as he slides the frames on. 

The other man raises a crooked eyebrow. "Just don't go apeshit crazy on me. I'll need you to take care of me when _I_ start forgetting things."

They laugh.

_Flash forward._

He misses Roger's cup completely as he tries to pour boiling water into his mug. "Dammit," he hisses as steam rises from the table.

Roger puts down the packet of sugar he's holding and gets a towel. "Rafa," he says as he begins to gingerly mop up the mess, "keep this up and you'll be as clumsy as I am."

"I think I have a long time to go before that happens," Rafa retorts, though he still feels bad as he places the kettle into the sink, wondering how his aim could have been so poor.

Roger chuckles. "Yeah, I guess I'm in an advanced stage of clumsiness. Do you remember that one time, two weeks ago, when we were in bed and I accidentally—"

" _Dios mio_ , don't remind me," Rafa moans. "That was painful as hell."

"Well, anyway," Roger continues cheerfully, "please don't become as inept with your body parts as I am."

Rafa coughs lightly. "I'd have to shoot myself if that were to happen."

"Yeah, we only need one clumsy person around here. And I've already claimed that spot." Roger smiles softly.

He sighs and shakes his head. "Why do I love you?"

Roger snorts. "Because you find my creaking joints incredibly hot."

A pause. "I suppose I can't argue with that."

"Exactly," Roger tosses the towel onto the counter. "So, want to hear more of those joints? In a closed setting?" 

"Aren't we a little too old for innuendo?" Rafa looked sideways at him. He does that funny thing with his brow.

"Oh, come on, our entire relationship is based on innuendo, Rafa. Now are you with me or not?"

He purses his lips. "I'm with you."

Roger smiles as he grabs his hand. "Just don't spill any hot water on me," he chortles, and drags him to the bedroom.

And then Rafa discovers that Roger's idea of hearing more of those joints is him mimicking the Next Gen players’ service game.

He finds that he doesn't mind at all.

_Flash forward._

"Are you planning on sleeping anytime soon?" Roger mumbles from the bed, eyes half-closed.

"Let me just finish watching this," he answers. He’s sitting on the desk chair while the TV screen is showing Christine and Raoul singing _All I Ask of You_.

"God, Raf, you're such a nerd," Roger retorts. “You’ve watched _The Phantom_ a million times already.”

Rafa snorts. "A nerd? I would classify myself as merely being a musical enthusiast."

Roger flips over in bed and faces him. "Alright, alright," he says, grinning. "Now come lay beside me. I’m lonely."

"But I’m sitting right here," Rafa says these words slowly, emphasizing how close he is to Roger.

"It's not quite the same as actually being next to me, if you know what I mean," the other says with a knowing smile as one hand grazes over Rafa's thigh.

"Roger!" he gasps.

"Oops, sorry, better let the musical nerd watch his late-night musical reruns. Meanwhile, I'll just be lying here. Alone."

Rafa glares at him, though there's no force behind it, and returns to watch the TV. To his surprise, he realizes that he can't understand a word of what he's watching—it sounds like background noise.

 _Well, how the hell am I supposed to concentrate, with Roger right here next to me_ , he thinks, glancing down at the other man, who's still grinning like an idiot. "All right, you win," he mutters, standing up from the chair next to the bed.

" _Excellent_ ," Roger says emphatically.

The TV screen is quickly forgotten.

_Flash forward._

There's an empty carton of orange juice in the refrigerator.

"Rogi," he says, "when you're finished, you should really throw the box away."

"Finished with what?" Roger shouted from the other room.

"The apple." He pauses. _No,_ Rafa thought. That doesn't sound quite right.

"We have a box of apples?"

"I… _apple_ ," he says again, brows furrowing.

"Hey Rafa, are you okay?" Roger says with a hint of concern.

"Fine," he snaps. Ridiculous. Why isn't the word coming to him?

"I'll go buy some apples, if that's what you really want," Roger says, looking concerned.

Rafa doesn't reply; he's still staring into the fridge. He can see it right there. Why can't he name it?

But he knows Roger is not to blame for his own memory failures. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, shutting the door. "I shouldn't have lashed out at you."

"It's alright," the other replies, his eyes wide and alert. "I—I'm the one who should've… thrown the box away." He gives him a weak smile.

He tries to smile in return. _I'll remember what it's called later_ , he tells himself.

Except he doesn't.

_Flash forward._

"I haven't seen you go out and train with the kids in a while," Roger says as he walks into the bedroom.

"What do you mean?" Rafa replies, his eyes glued to the TV. He’s watching _Mamma Mia!_ this time.

"You know, the kids from the academy?"

"I didn't feel like doing it anymore."

Roger stares at him. "You're not one to give up so easily." 

He shrugs. "I didn't give up. It just stopped being interesting." 

"Didn't you say something a while ago about wanting to teach kids to play tennis? It's hard to believe that dedication suddenly vanished."

"Well, it did, Roger," he snaps, and he feels a bit of pleasure at seeing the other man wince. "I'm old, you're old, things change, alright? Stop nagging me."

"God, Raf, I didn't mean—"

"The torch relay will be perfectly peaceful," he interrupts, thoroughly annoyed now.

Roger's eyes widened. "W-what? Say that again?"

He doesn't see anything wrong with his words. "The torch relay will be perfectly peaceful."

"Raf," the other says softly after a long pause, and there is the barest hint of fear in his voice. "I-I think you need to get some sleep. Please. You've just been sitting here watching TV all day. I'm beginning to worry." 

Rafa rolls his eyes and hits the off button on the remote control. "Fine, if it bothers you that much."

"T-thank you."

He doesn't reply.

_Flash forward._

"Do you want to play tennis?"

Rafa shrugs. "If you want to."

He hasn't been feeling well lately. Nothing interests him. Roger keeps on trying to make him do things, but his heart just isn't into it. All he wants is to sit and watch TV all day, except Roger's hid the remote control and he can't find them.

"Great," Roger says brightly, disappearing and returning with their racquets and a can of tennis balls. "So. Do you want to serve or to receive?" 

"Will it make a difference?"

"Er. Well, I thought you might want to receive, with that atrocious serve of yours." Roger sounds panicky at this point, but he hides it well.

Rafa doesn’t seem to notice. "Oh. I don't care."

"You… can receive then, I guess," Roger answers, endeavoring valiantly to smile. He goes to the other side of the court. "Ready when you are."

He stares at his racquet, trying to figure out what to do—somehow it feels like it should be coming to him naturally, but right now, his mind is blank. Eventually he decides to go to the baseline and crouch down, ready to receive Roger’s serve. It seems like a safe thing to do.

Roger then bounces the ball twice and serves, and for a while they play in silence, the sound of the tennis ball bouncing up from the hardcourt resounds loudly. Roger is already taking it easy against him, but Rafa playing badly is an understatement. 

And then Roger stops playing. "That's it," he says. "Something's wrong."

"What?" 

"I'm kicking your ass. That never happens. Well, I mean, it does sometimes, but then you pull off some sort of miracle and win. But look at you, you’re not even making an effort to hit the ball." He walks over to Rafa and grabs him by the shoulders. "Tell me what's happening."

Rafa looks genuinely confused. "Nothing's happening."

"You've been acting weird for weeks. Months, really. I thought you were just, you know, getting old."

"Oh, thanks," he says sarcastically.

Roger shakes his head. "But it's more than that. You haven't been in the mood for _anything_. You've been saying the most bizarre things and watching TV all the time and acting snappy and now you can't even play tennis. It's scaring me."

And when he puts it that way, it scares him, too. "I-I don't know what's going on," Rafa whispers.

Roger holds him close. "Well, Rafa, I love you, and I don't want anything to happen to you. So… I think it's time we go to the hospital."

Rafa closes his eyes and nods.

_Flash forward._

He finds himself in a whirlwind of activity.

Sometimes people ask him questions about himself. It's painful because a few of those questions are about his parents. And he can't answer those.

Sometimes different people ask him questions about random things he doesn't really care about. Once they ask him to draw a clock. He doesn't see the point in it, but he does it anyway because he's scared they might plot to hurt him otherwise.

Sometimes he is stuck into a long cylinder, where he can see nothing but white and hear nothing but some sort of terrible pounding sound. He hates this part the most—the cramped space is almost more than he can bear. But Roger is there for him when he comes out.

When everything is done, they give him some pills. Roger reassures him that they won't kill him, and so he swallows.

Then he sleeps.

_Flash forward._

His eyes open, and he realizes he's in a hospital room.

He glances around. Roger is to his left, looking anxious. "How are you feeling?" he asks, standing up as soon as he realizes the other is awake.

"I'm fine," he murmurs, moving himself into a sitting position. He can almost hear his bones creaking in protest. "Though… I don't have a very clear memory of what happened in the past few days."

The other man swallows heavily. "D-do you know why you came here in the first place?"

He frowns. The tennis court comes to mind. "Yes."

Roger nods to himself before preparing to speak. "Well… you were tested. To see if anything was wrong with you. You remember, right? You had trouble speaking sometimes, you didn't feel like doing anything anymore, and I think there was some paranoia—"

"I remember, Roger. So tell me. What did they find?"

"You…" Dark eyes dart away; the rise and fall of his chest becomes more pronounced.

Rafa is suddenly terrified of his answer—but he has to know. "What did they find?" he repeats.

Roger looks back at him, and there is anguish clearly written on his face. "You have Alzheimer's, Rafa."

His breath catches in his throat. Alzheimer's. "There's no cure for that," he says.

"No," the other whispers, and Rafa is struck by just how _old_ he looks—Roger isn't young anymore, certainly, but now his face seems to have aged ten years. Determination, however, lights his features as he continues. "It'll be okay, though. You're on medication right now. That—that'll slow it down. And I'll take care of you. I won't leave. We'll get through this together, just like the way it's always been." He takes his hand. "I'll still love you. Forever." He purses his lips. "Cheesy, huh? But it's the truth."

"You were always a hopeless romantic." Rafa closed his eyes.

Roger smiles, visibly relieved. "That's the Rafa I know," he says.

He can't help but wonder how long that will last.

_Flash forward._

They play tennis. Rafa wins. The pills are working.

Maybe a miracle will happen.

_Flash forward._

"We're going on a walk," Roger announces.

"Why, are you looking to work out those impressive leg muscles of yours?"

"Yeah, that's right. It's my secret plan. In a few weeks I'm going to show you my hairy old-man calves and blow you away." Roger smiles full of mirth.

Rafa snorts into his drink, then hurriedly regains his composure. "As appealing as that sounds, I know that’s not the only reason why. What's the real reason?"

The other man looks affronted. "Wanting to impress you with my body isn't good enough?" After receiving a glare in return, he continues, looking considerably more serious. "I did some research. Walks are apparently helpful because they, um, 'improve communication and prevent wandering'. It doesn't hurt to try, does it?"

It all comes back to that. Though he does his best to deny it, his disease has become an integral part of his life—even when he tries to forget, it's always sitting there in the back of his mind. He fears that it'll drive him insane.

 _Well, of course, it will_ , he thinks bitterly. _That's one of the symptoms._

But Roger is only trying to help.

"No, of course not," Rafa replies. "Let's do it."

Hand in hand, they step outside.

_Flash forward._

When it happens again, he knows the reason behind it, and the terror sets in.

Roger is playing the Moonlight Sonata on the piano, and though it's supposed to be a slow song, he is taking far too much time to hit each note.

"Christ, Rogi," he says, smiling. "People had to listen to _this_ for seven years?"

"Hush, you," Roger replies, grinning in return. "My fingers aren't what they used to be. It’s been a very long while since I’ve played the piano. You should have seen me play when I was a kid, they were all crying."

"I think they were crying for a different reason."

"You wound me, good sir." He scoots over on the bench. "But come here. We can make beautiful music together."

"Ah, yes, I expect my zero years of experience will be a lovely contribution to your stellar piano skills." Nevertheless, he sits down next to him.

"Oh, I'll help you," Roger says with a smirk, taking hold of his hands.

"If that's the case, I suppose I'll become a key in no time."

The hands freeze. "W-what was that?" 

"Key?" Rafa’s breathing quickens. _Oh, God, it's not the right word, is it._

It's a symptom, he knows, and it's presenting despite the pills. Which means the disease is progressing.

"S-someone who is very good at s-something," Rafa stammers. "Key."

"Do you mean _master_?" Roger supplies helpfully, his hands beginning to gently massage and caress Rafa's own. "Pro?"

Rafa nods nervously. "Yes."

And he knows the miracle isn't going to happen.

_Flash forward._

As soon as Roger walks into the room, he gets up and kisses him hard on the mouth. "I love you," he breathes.

The other's face dissolves into a sloppy smile. "I love you too, Rafa, but where on earth did that come from?"

Rafa pulls him into an embrace. "I realized I've barely said those words at all in the last twenty years."

"You didn't have to," Roger murmurs. "I knew already."

Rafa’s hands tighten around the other's waist. "Still. You deserve to hear it more. And… and I want to say it. While I still can." To his surprise, he can feel tears welling up in his eyes. "I love you, Roger. So much. You've always been by my side. Even now, when—when the end is coming."

Roger admonishes him. "Don't say that—"

"But it's the truth. We both know it. S-so until that end comes, I'm going to say it as much as possible. B-before I forget how." He presses his face into his shoulder. "I love you. I love you. I love you. No matter what happens later, just… just know. I'll love you." Rafa shudderingly breathes into Roger’s shoulder.

"Me too," Roger whispers, and he thinks he can hear the other's voice catch.

They hold each other like they're never going to let go.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everybody guys i hope you are all safe during these trying times. life's been really hard lately so remember to watch match in africa (aka the fedal 2020 event) to make you smile :)
> 
> consider this chapter as the calm before the storm.
> 
> comments are much appreciated <3

_ Flash forward. _

"Charlene is going to come by soon," Roger tells him during one of their daily walks.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, she’s going to do some redecorating." He chuckles. "Can't say she’s much good at it, but it'll be nice to have some color in the house, since… you know."

Rafa glances at him. "You told her?"

"Raf, she’s your daughter as much as she is mine. Of course I told her."

“How about Myla?” Rafa tilts his head to the side.

Roger looks at him solemnly. “She can’t come unfortunately. Myla’s still busy with university.”

Rafa nods at this and looks down at the ground. "Does anyone else know?"

"No. I thought…” Roger said slowly, “it should be your decision. In case you wanted to release it to the world." 

"I'm sure millions of people would be interested in an Alzheimer's letter from an old, retired tennis player." Rafa rolled his eyes sarcastically.

Roger manages a weak smile. "Well, anyway. I do think you should call Maribel, at the very least."

"Hmm." For some reason, it had never crossed his mind to inform anyone else. And even now, the idea seems completely unappealing.

He knows why. But he doesn't want to admit it to anyone. "I'll consider it," he says.

They continue to walk.

_ Flash forward. _

Rafa spends an hour or so staring at the phone that night, Roger's words echoing in his head. She needs to know. He doesn't want to tell her.

But he should.

He finally picks it up, and, after several moments of stumbling around hunting down her number and instructions on how to make international calls—which he needs Roger to help him read—he tentatively begins to punch in the buttons.

A clipped voice answers on the phone. "Who dares call me at ass crack o’clock in the morning?"

Damn. He had forgotten about the time zone difference. "Your ass brother, I suppose."

"Rafa?" Maribel answered softly.

"Did I… Did I wake you up?" Rafa asked hesitantly. He doesn’t want to bother Maribel with his problems at all.

"Yes, but…"Rafa can hear Maribel shuffling sheets on the other side of the line. "It's not like you to call at this time. So this must be important." Maribel’s voice sounded serious.

He winces at her words and Rafa breathes deeply before replying, "That's what I wanted to talk about, actually," he says cautiously. "I have something to tell you. S-something's come up, Maribel."

Maribel’s voice sounds more awake now. "Rafa, What is it?"

"I…" _I have a disease with no known cure that will strip me of my ability to form memories, make_ _rational decisions, understand language, and, in the end, live on my own._

Rafa shudders. He can't say that to her—because if he does, then she'll want to fly here and visit, and her last memory of him will not be of Rafael Nadal, the funny, caring, big brother who tries his best to bake her a cake to make his sister happy, but of Rafael Nadal, the degenerating, dying man. And he doesn't want that.

"...Rafa?"

Rafa should tell her. But he won't.

"I drank some stale tea." Rafa winces a bit. But if Maribel noticed it in his voice, she doesn’t say anything.

He can hear Maribel snort on the other end. "This is why you drink your tea as soon as you buy it."

Rafa closes his eyes and grips the telephone harder. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

There is silence for a moment. And then: "Is that really all?" She sounds suspicious.

"It, ah, made me feel ill." Rafa sighs into the microphone.

"Well." Maribel paused. "I trust that if you called for something as stupid as stale tea, you would certainly inform me of other important happenings in your life as well, yes?"

"Of course. I'm sorry to have bothered you, Maribel. Go back to sleep."

"Hey, none of that. You are no bother to me at all, Raf." Rafa can hear Maribel’s smile through her voice. He feels even more guilty for lying to her.

Rafa is trying hard to keep his voice even. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Make sure Roger takes good care of you."

"He will." Rafa is shaking.

Maribel reminds him sternly. "Don't drink any more stale tea."

Rafa whispers. "I promise, I won't."

"Until next time, then. Love you." Maribel replies.

Next time. He has a sudden, terrible feeling that there won't be a next time for the two of them—not while he's still sane, anyway.

"You're a good sister, Maribel," he murmurs, and hangs up.

He should have told her. But he didn't.

_ Flash forward. _

Charlene's standing there in the doorway biting her lip and staring at him, like she doesn't know what to say.

It's probably best to get it over with. "Roger told me he told you about my… problem." He feels a pang of guilt when he speaks those words, but he can't quite remember what it is he's feeling guilty about. Something to do with Maribel…?

She stares some more before throwing her arms around him and beginning to babble. "I'm so sorry it took long for me to come and visit you! When Daddy called and told me I didn't know what to do and  _ oh _ , Uncle Rafa, I missed you—"

"Charlene, I think you might be choking him," Roger says from off to the side, eyes creased in amusement.

Charlene lets go quickly but continues talking, unfazed. "Anyway, I brought paint and other things so we're going to really liven this place up!"

She is true to her word. After settling in and eating, Charlene shoved paintbrushes to them and started painting in the living room, covering it in pastel peach. The color reminds Roger of sunrise’s light filtered through white thin curtains in Mallorca. He hums to himself indulgently as he gets to work, and after a moment's hesitation, Rafa follows suit.

It isn't until after almost an hour that Rafa realizes he's been painting the walls in a completely eccentric way, his brushstrokes wavering wildly, looking like mad scribbles. When he apologizes for wasting the paint, Charlene giggles and tells him that it's fine, she can buy more; she has the money since she’s done tutoring work in university. But Rafa doesn't miss the stricken look Charlene gives her father, nor the sad shake of the head Roger gives them in return.

Rafa excuses himself, at that point, to wash up. But he ends up curled on the floor of the bathroom, hating his own traitorous body and this stupid disease.

He knows it's only going to get worse.

_ Flash forward. _

Roger manages to talk to both Charlene alone after painting the living room. 

"What's going to happen to him?" Charlene asks quietly.

Roger grimaces at the question. Of course she’s worried about Rafa. "It's a degenerative illness. He's… going to lose a lot of brain function."

Rafa probably shouldn't be listening in on their conversation. They think he's sleeping, after all. But now that he can hear them, he finds himself unable to move away.

Charlene murmurs in response. "Who else knows?"

"He called your aunt. I don't know if he told her. I hope he did, but I never asked. I thought it should be his decision." Roger gives a bitter laugh. "God, I don't even know. I read somewhere you should give them a lot of choices. Or something. Just… this is really hard."

"Are you okay?" She looks up to her father and sees Roger’s eyes are watery.

A pause. "No, not at all," he answers, so quietly Rafa can barely make out the words. "But I'm trying to keep my spirits up. For both our sakes. You saw what he was like today, though. Making scribbles on the walls. Usually he's alright, but there are times when something is wrong. And it's probably going to start happening more often. I… I'm scared, Charles."

Rafa tears himself away from the door and stumbles back to his room at that point, unable to listen any longer. It breaks his heart, hearing the other talk like this. Roger, forever optimistic, is  _ scared _ . The implications are terrifying.

By the next morning, he doesn't remember it well enough to be afraid himself.

_ Flash forward. _

Roger looks hassled as he makes his way around the house, checking all the drawers.

"What are you searching for?" Rafa asks.

"My wallet." Roger continues to open each drawer without looking at Rafa.

Rafa replies. "Shouldn't it be on the counter where you usually put it?"

"Yeah." Roger looks at him now.

Rafa raises his eyebrows. "So it's not?"

Roger starts to shift uncomfortably. "Um… it was moved."

"By who?” Rafa, ever so expressive, raises the tone of his voice. “There are only the two of us in the house."

"Weird, isn't it?" Roger laughs weakly and scratches his head.

But then it hits Rafa. "I moved it, didn't I?"

"It's fine, Raf, really."

Rafa doesn't answer.

Roger finds it eventually, tucked in the pantry between two bottles of grape juice. He laughs it off and says that at least it wasn't in the trash can.

Rafa hates himself a little more.

_ Flash forward. _

Rafa is back to sitting in front of the TV. A small voice in the back of his head tells him this isn't a good sign, but his mind is too hazy to process it. Roger tries to drag him out on a walk, and when that doesn't work, attempts to engage him in conversation instead.

Rafa tells him to go away.

_ Flash forward. _

Rafa puts on the black and purple Nike kit he has, complete with headband and wristbands, before leaving the room.

"Interesting choice of clothing," Roger says.

"What?" Rafa glares at Roger.

Roger stares at him for a second, then looks down. "Er, nothing. Sorry."

Roger starts to lay out the next day's outfit for him after that. He never figures out the reason for it.

_ Flash forward. _

Rafa hasn't said "I love you" very much lately because it keeps on slipping his mind. But when he does remember, Roger still responds as warmly as ever.

He thinks he can see tears in the other man's eyes on those occasions.

Sometimes he understands why, and tears form in his own eyes.

Sometimes he doesn't.

_ Flash forward. _

"Thirsty," Rafa mumbles from the couch.

Roger peers through his iPad. "Do you want a drink?"

"Yes. Get me… when you have a glass of it and you put your hand on the other side you can see it. Same color." Rafa says slowly and moves his hand in the air to illustrate his point.

Roger puts his iPad away. "What?"

Rafa looks at him pointedly and waves his hands harder for emphasis. "If you put your hand on the other side it's the same color."

"Do you mean  _ clear _ ?" Roger asks, biting his lip. "Like… water?"

"Mmm." Rafa nods.

And by now, Rafa has been unable to find the right words so many times that he is only slightly alarmed.

_ Flash forward. _

Rafa hands Roger a battered book that is about to tear around its spine. "Read to me," he tells him.

Roger looks surprised. "Read…?"

"I… can't read very well on my own anymore. So I want to hear you read. It's like… I want to hear high language. I can barely make high language myself now." He pauses, vaguely aware that Roger may not have caught his meaning. "Does that make sense?"

Roger squints and furrows his eyebrows. "I think so. Rafa…"

"Just read," Rafa says, settling himself within the crook of Roger's neck. He grips the older man’s arms tightly. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't know if I… can."

"Alright," Roger murmurs, pulling him closer and opening the book. "Wait, this is  _ Hamlet _ ."

"I know." Rafa whispers.

Roger looks down on Rafa. He looks peaceful. "It's a bit dark, too, isn't it?" 

Rafa presses himself against the other's body. "It means a lot to me."

Roger pauses, then grins. "Would you like me to do voices?"

Rafa manages a weak laugh. "If you want."

"Get ready to be amazed, then." The Swiss clears his throat dramatically and begins. "Who's there? / Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself. / Long live the king…"

Rafa falls asleep in Roger's arms, listening to the sounds of  _ Hamlet _ being read out loud, reveling in the artistry of a language he can no longer fully comprehend.

_ Flash forward. _

Rafa has a moment of acute awareness in which he realizes that he cannot read, he cannot write, and he cannot speak as he used to, and suddenly he's scared, he's scared,  _ he's scared _ , but there's nothing he can do about it and it's like parts of his mind are leaking away and he wants to patch up the holes but he has nothing to patch it up with and so it continues to empty and what is the point of living if he cannot communicate, especially not with Roger, Roger, the man he promised he would say "I love you" to all the time except he forgets as much as he remembers and sometimes he hears the word and isn't even sure what it means but when he does recall the meaning it breaks his heart because Roger needs to know this but he doesn't tell him enough and he really should but his memory is failing and language is failing and he cannot keep his terrifying thoughts in order but then for better or for worse this moment of acute awareness fades and he resumes his daily, dying life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh yikes sad rafa :((


	3. Chapter 3

_Flash forward._

  
  


"This is kind of a weird question, but, um… do you know where all the pens went?"

"Of course," Rafa answers. "I have them all."

"Oh. C-can I have one? I need it. To, you know, write."

Rafa looks at Roger flatly. "Use a pencil."

"W-well, the thing is—"

Rafa raises his voice. "Look, the pens are all mine now, alright? You can't take them."

"Rafa…"

He picks up a set of keys laid on the table and throws it at Roger. It misses completely, but the other man looks as if he has been hit anyway.

Good. He should know not to try and take what's his.

  
  


_Flash forward._

  
  


He wanders through the house, marveling at the colors of each room. Red. Blue. Green. He likes that they stand out so much. Sometimes if he goes into a room where the walls are too muted, he has trouble distinguishing between the background and the furniture. It frightens him, so he has to go to another room where he can tell the difference more easily.

His chair is in the peach room, marked with a bright yellow pillow, making it easy to locate.

He can vaguely remember when it wasn't so hard to find things, but all he knows is that it was a long time ago.

  
  


_Flash forward._

  
  


"Don't forget to brush your teeth," Roger tells him while washing the dishes.

Rafa nods and goes to the bathroom. Put toothpaste on brush, place in mouth, move back and forth.

He needs reminders to do these things now.

  
  


_Flash forward._

  
  


There are items all over the kitchen counter.

"I'm making a pie," Roger says, grinning. "Do you want to help?"

Rafa looks at him. "Okay."

The Swiss flashes him a brilliant smile, retrieving a mound of dough from a bowl and setting it on a breadboard before handing Rafa a rolling pin. "So just roll this until it's nice and flat, alright?"

He complies, slowly smoothing out all the grooves and bumps with the pin. He doesn't realize that in the time it takes for him to do this, Roger has greased the plate, made the filling, and prepared the crumbs to go on top.

"Beautiful," Roger tells him when he is done, pressing the flattened dough into the pie plate, though there is something sad in his eyes when he says the word.

  
  


But Rafa is happy to hear the praise.

_Flash forward._

"Listen," he can hear Roger say, "I'm not sure if he's up to talking right now. He's been—well, I know, but—all right, I'll put him on." He turns to Rafa. "Rafa, Maribel's calling. Do you want to talk to her?"

"No."

"I think you should," Roger replies.

Rafa wags his finger in disapproval. "No."

"She insists."

"Fine." Roger hands him the phone. "Who is this?"

A worried female voice answers. "What kind of question is that? Did Roger Federer not just tell you who I was?"

"Roger Federer just told you who I was."

"What?"

"What?"

"Rafa, you are being childish. Can you stop repeating everything I say?"

Rafa wants to recite her latest statement, but she's talking too fast. Not that he's entirely sure why he feels like doing this.

"Anyway," Maribel continues, "you have not called me for several months now. I was getting worried."

"Oh."

There is a brief pause. "Is that all you have to tell me?"

Raha hums in response.

"Rafa," she says, and her voice is lower, more gentle. "Is something wrong?"

Rafa takes a moment to think about it. "Send me a new remote control. Roger hid the remote."

He can see the other man pursing his lips as Maribel responds. "This is your concern?"

"Yes."

Maribel trails. "That is… extremely strange."

"Oh."

Maribel’s voice is now full of concern. "Rafa, talk to me."

"No." He hangs up.

  
  


When the phone rings again immediately afterward, he refuses to allow Roger to answer.

  
  


_Flash forward._

  
  


Rafa walks up to Roger and pokes him. "Rogi, I'm sorry. Let's go on a walk."

Roger looks up, confused. "What are you sorry about?"

"Not wanting to walk. But I want to walk now." Rafa says slowly.

"Er… okay," Roger says, grabbing his coat. "It's a bit cold out, though; do you mind?"

Rafa shrugs.

"Let me get a scarf for you, then," the Swiss continues, dashing off and returning with one. As he loops it around Rafa's neck, he gets the sudden feeling that maybe Roger is trying to kill him.

So Rafa slaps him right on the cheek. " _Hijo de puta_ ," he snarls. "You want me to die, don't you?"

Roger steps back, looking wounded. "What—"

"Shut the hell up, Federer. You should have just left me when I was—was—" he struggles to find the word and fails, but presses forward—"when they thought I couldn’t do it, then I wouldn't have to deal with this bullshit now."

The Spaniard turns to leave, but Roger grabs his arm quickly. "Please, Rafa, this isn't you."

"Oh? And how would you know that?" Rafa yanks his arm away. "Leave me alone." And he storms into the bedroom and locks the door behind him.

When he comes out again an hour later, he sees Roger sitting at the table with his head in his hands, shoulders heaving.

Rafa kisses his hair. "What's wrong?"

Roger doesn't answer immediately. "Nothing," he whispers finally. "I'm a little tired, is all."

Rafa presses a kiss on Roger’s forehead. "You should sleep," he replies, wrapping one arm around him.

  
  


But Roger just takes his hand and begins to weep.

  
  


_Flash forward._

  
  


There is an old man reading a book in the kitchen. He has soft black hair with white peppering his temples and a soft smile.

Rafa stares at him, intrigued. He looks extremely familiar. 

"Hey, Rafa," the man says, glancing up and giving him a tentative smile.

"Mr. Federer," he greets, nodding his head.

There is a moment of hesitation before he replies. "You're… certainly formal today."

He seats himself at the table. "We've only just met. I have to be formal."

Mr. Federer draws in a sharp intake of breath. "R-right," he stutters.

The other man looks as though he's not sure whether he should laugh or cry, taking a few moments to breathe in and out before responding. Rafa can't figure out why this is such a hard question to answer. "Yes," he mumbles at last.

"Hmm." He twiddles his thumbs for a bit. "What are you reading?" It's best to be amicable toward the man; he wants to give a good impression after all.

"Hamlet. S-someone I… know likes this play. So I've been rereading it." Mr. Federer is looking at him hopefully, as if his words might mean something special to him.

Well, he won't be disappointed. "Oh, I enjoy that play as well," he says brightly. "I… have that feeling where it's like I'm the main… person. It’s such an interesting play filled with drama."

The saddest smile he's ever seen spreads across Mr. Federer's face. "Is that so?"

Rafa nods. "I really like it."

The other bites his lip. "I… I think it’s nice too, Rafa," he replies.

Rafa smiles at Mr. Federer.

They sit in silence for a moment. He notices that Mr. Federer is breathing heavily. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," the other man murmurs.

Rafa has a feeling that he's lying, but it's not his place to intrude.

He takes the time to wonder idly where Roger is.

  
_Flash forward_.

  
  


Rafa breaks through the delusion and it's like a sensory overload; he remembers everything that's happened and oh God, the things he's said and done to Roger and the way the other just put up with it all this time, pretending to be brave, to be strong, but he knows that while Roger is indeed brave and strong there is no way he can continue to be, not after all this, and the guilt is overwhelming because he thinks he just might be breaking him but he can't stop himself; his mind is not clear often enough but it is right now and he needs to find him and tell him—tell him—no, he can't tell him because he doesn't know what to tell him, just that he needs to speak with him while he is still here and let him know that he is himself in this very instant and to make it last as long as he can because he knows he will lose this but not yet, not yet, he needs to reach him first and there he is and even though he sees him every day it is not every day that he sees him: Roger Federer, the man who means more to him than any other person in the world.

"Roger," he gasps, and he is thankful that his lips still know how to form that name, that exquisite combination of vowels and consonants.

And Roger looks up at him and those brown eyes meet his own and he is struck by how much pain there is: he knows that he is the cause of all of it and the guilt washes over him again, but then those eyes light up and there is something beautiful there, beautiful and familiar and he remembers seeing that beauty in the past; it is what drew him to the man in the first place all those years ago. "Rafa?" he asks, standing up, and he doesn't miss the slight tremble of his hand as he pushes the chair in—he is old, and Rafa is making him older.

He throws himself into the other's arms and holds him as tightly as he can; his strength is greatly diminished and so it is not nearly as tight as he would like but he tries his best, and he can feel the other man's arms wrapping around him and also pressing him close and he remembers the last time they embraced each other like this and the things he said, and so he says them again: I love you, I love you, and for him, the words never get old, never get tiring, no matter how much he repeats them because he means it every time, especially now, when he barely says them, but then they change to I'm sorry, I'm sorry, and Roger is shaking his head and telling him _no, no, don't be sorry, please don't say that, I don't blame you._

And when Rafa's voice fades, Roger's voice fills the silence, whispering _stay with me, stay with me_ , sounding desperate and wretched, and Rafa can feel the other's tears on his face, burning like fire but he does not pull back.

Rafa tries, he tries to stay; there is nothing he wants more than to retain this moment of clarity—but already he can feel himself slipping, his mind clouding, his grip on Roger loosening, and as he steps backward he is only dimly aware of Roger's stricken features before he is gone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry if this chapter is a bit shorter than the rest, i'm in the process of getting my life together so the next update might take awhile (there's only two chapters left so don't worry!)
> 
> let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

_ Flash forward. _

Roger closes his eyes and sighs. "You should eat." Rafa hasn’t eaten yet, and lately, the Spaniard’s appetite is nonexistent. He peers over the kitchen counter as he chops strawberries.

"Don't want to." Rafa mumbles.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"No."

"But you haven't eaten all day. Come on. Strawberries. They're soft. I chopped them up." Mr. Federer’s voice is pleading at this point.

"Strawberries," Rafa repeats.

"Yes," Mr. Federer says. "Here." He feeds him a spoonful.

Rafa frowns, then chews slowly and swallows.

"More?"

Rafa shrugs.

Mr. Federer continues to feed him.

  
  


_ Flash forward. _

Rafa picks up the toothbrush and almost immediately drops it. After trying a second time, he is successful at maneuvering it to his mouth, but then he realizes he's not sure what to do with it. Toothbrush. Tooth… brush. But the brushing eludes him. Mr. Federer is sitting in the living room, staring into space. When Rafa comes in, the other man gives him a hopeful look, but it fades quickly. "Are you alright, Rafa?"

He holds out the toothbrush.

Mr. Federer glances at it. "Do you need help?"

Rafa nods.

They go to the bathroom together, where the other man adds a dollop of toothpaste to the brush and slowly raises it to Rafa's mouth before starting to move it in a back-and-forth motion. He is gentle and careful. It reminds him of when his own father first helped him learn how to brush his teeth.

_ Flash forward. _

Mr. Federer is reading out loud.

"Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive..."

The words are music to his ears, though he's not entirely sure what all of them mean.

Nevertheless, he finds himself restless, so he gets up and starts to leave the room.

"Rafa?" Mr. Federer grabs his arm before he can go any further.

"What?"

"I… don't want you wandering off on your own. Just… please." He looks pained.

Sometimes Mr. Federer acts like a father to him and sometimes he acts like more. It touches and confuses him at the same time. "Okay," he mumbles.

The other man leads him back to the sofa and sits him down before following suit and taking his hand. "D-do you mind?" he asks quickly.

Rafa looks down at their intertwined fingers. It reminds him of Roger. "Not really."

Mr. Federer closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, his grip tightening for a second, then opens the book with his free hand. "Fare thee well at once! / The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, / And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire: / Adieu, adieu! Hamlet,  _ remember me _ …"

And if he had been more aware, he would have realized that Roger added the emphasis.

_ Flash forward. _

It is becoming increasingly difficult for him to walk around the house. Every move he makes is accompanied by a tremor in his bones.

Mr. Federer notices and insists on following him wherever he goes.

He finds it to be very annoying.

_ Flash forward. _

There is nothing more terrifying than that tub of water.

"Don't put me in there."

"It's just a bath, Rafa."

"It'll kill me."

"It won't. I'll be here."

"You'll kill me."

"Rafa, that's—" Mr. Federer breaks off and turns away. "I'd never," he whispers.

Rafa crosses his arms. "I'm not going in there."

The other man looks too upset to reply.

_ Flash forward. _

Rafa can see a person lying beside him.

Rafa immediately shoots up from bed. "Stop breathing my air! I'll… I'll stop you!"

"W-what? What are you…?"

" _ Stop breathing my air! _ "

He has no choice. He picks up something from the bedside table and throws it at the man.

Then he sees Mr. Federer clutching at his face. There is a bruise forming beneath his left eye. He looks at Rafa, then at the floor, where a bottle of water is lying on its side. "What—why on earth…"

"Don't hurt me," he says.

"Dammit, Rafa," the other man snaps. His eyes are watering—maybe from the pain, maybe from something else. "God, this—this is getting impossible to put up with. Just… excuse me." He gets up, retrieves an ice pack from the freezer, and leaves the kitchen.

When he is gone, Rafa picks up the bottle of water and stares at it in confusion.

_ Flash forward. _

He is awake, if just barely, when he hears Mr. Federer get out of the king bed next to his. After a few moments, he can feel the other man take his hand and plant a kiss on his forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispers. In the darkness, it's easy to imagine it's Roger speaking, somehow. The thought is comforting. "I didn't mean it. It's not you doing these things. The real Rafa is still in there somewhere. I won't leave him. You. I wish I could tell you this while you were awake but you probably wouldn't understand anyway." He squeezes his hand. "I'll wait for you to come back. I miss you. I love you. Always. That's what I promised, right? You'd do the same. I know."

The words are coming out too quickly for him to fully comprehend them. But something in the tone of the other man's voice makes him feel at ease.

He can feel a tear drop fall onto his face.

_ Flash forward. _

Bright lights and searing pain meet him after he falls down the stairs.

He tries to move but it's impossible. It hurts too much. He can't call for help, either: for some reason he is having difficulties forming a name.

Some time later—he isn't sure how long—Mr. Federer appears from around the corner, holding a basket of laundry. Their eyes meet. Mr. Federer drops what he's carrying. "Jesus Christ, Rafa," he breathes, running over to him. "Are you okay?"

"I hurt," he says.

Attempts to help him stand up are met with failure after Rafa keeps on crying out in pain. Mr. Federer calls an ambulance.

Rafa falls asleep on the way there.

_ Flash forward. _

He wakes up to see Mr. Federer talking to a man in a white coat. All three of them are in a sterile-looking room. It reminds him of something, but he can't remember what.

"He'll be fine. With regards to the broken hip, anyway. It'll mend. But I wanted to ask you about your face. How long has that bruise been there?"

"Oh, I don't know… a while," Mr. Federer replies, reaching up to touch his cheek gingerly.

"A while?" There was a hint of concern on the other man’s voice.

"A few weeks, I guess."

"It still looks pretty bad."

"I'm old. Don't heal as well anymore." He gives a weak chuckle. "You should have seen how beat up I got when I was younger. Bad back, knees, you name it."

"Mr. Federer, I think your face might be fractured." The man in a white coat said flatly.

"Oh? That would explain why it hurts so much. Hmm."

"Why didn't you come to the hospital?"

"No need." He purses his lips. "And I didn't want to leave him." Mr. Federer looks to his side and meets Rafa’s eyes.

A pause. "You should get that checked out."

"I will. Thanks."

The man in the white coat—he knows there's a name for it but he doesn't know what it is—exits. Mr. Federer looks at Rafa. "You're awake. Feeling alright?"

He shrugs.

"I'm going to call Maribel."

He shrugs again.

"I don't know if you told her. But if you haven't, I will. I think she needs to see you."

Rafa raises his left brow. "Don't know what you're talking about."

Mr. Federer turns to face the wall. "Guess it's better that way," he can hear him say.

_ Flash forward. _

"You are so stupid, Rafa."

He squirms uncomfortably in his hospital bed. This isn't Maribel. Maribel is not old. But this woman is.

She keeps on talking. "I should have suspected something was wrong. But Roger had to tell me."

"You talked to Roger?"

The woman gives him a strange look. "Of course I did. He's right outside."

Rafa knits his brows. "That's Mr. Federer."

She peers over him. "Yes," she says carefully. "Now that I am here though, I have no intention of leaving you. You should have told me before… before it reached this point. I don't know why you would keep it a secret from me."

"What secret?"

She sighs and crinkles her eyes at him. "It doesn't matter, Rafa."

"You're not Maribel. Don't call me that."

The other woman noticeably flinches. "You’re so annoying," she whispers. "You waited until Roger had to tell me, and now you’re gone."

"I'm right here," he snaps irritably.

She just brushes back his fringe and smiles at him sadly.

_ Flash forward. _

She should not be here she should not be here  _ she should not be here _ but she is and he cannot believe it because he never told her and so she had no reason to come but here she is anyway, sitting in a chair next to his bed looking old but beautiful; she has aged so gracefully and it is beautiful to see, but then he suddenly remembers what it is that  _ she _ is seeing: a dying, demented man, and he is filled with shame and regret and has to turn away, but the sight of the man on other side of his bed only makes him feel worse: Roger, Roger, his face obscured by a dark bruise, and he knows who put it there—and though it was because of a hallucination that he did this, he is not absolved of his guilt and oh God, he's hurt them both so badly and he can't imagine anything he can do that will make them forgive him; bitterly he finds himself almost wishing for the haze to fall upon him again so that these feelings will go away, but no, no, they deserve more than that.

"I need to talk to you," he says, and he can see the two of them exchanging glances, looking hesitant, uncertain—they don't know that it's  _ him _ talking to them, not yet, so he needs to make sure they do: "Maribel and Roger."

"Rafa," Roger gasps, and he reaches out to take his hand, kissing it, breathing _you're here,_ _you're here_ , and Maribel tentatively clasps his other hand, murmuring _hey, Rafa you’re here_ ; behind the joy he can hear the anguish in their voices.

Maribel is the first to let go, moving elegantly toward the door, and when Rafa asks haltingly what she is doing, she merely smiles and tells him she wishes to give him a moment alone with his beloved Roger. "Thank you," he can hear him whisper before the door shuts, and then it is only the two of them in the room.

Rafa looks up at the other man's face, taking in the new wrinkles that have appeared there since he last saw it properly, eyes widening at the purple smudge flowering across his left cheek: he is drawn to it, and so his fingers brush lightly against the bruise; Roger's grip on his other hand tightens but he does not flinch.

Rafa’s voice is low and regretful. "I did this."

Roger’s reply is quick; there is no hesitation. "It wasn't really you."

"I'm still sorry."

Roger leans in closer, closer, so close that his breath is tickling his hair, and Rafa shuts his eyes and lets the feeling wash over him: it is reminiscent of their younger days, lying in bed curled up next to each other, their faces almost touching—he has never felt safer. "I told you already. I don't blame you."

"You should."  _ Roger, Roger, you are so good to me even when I hurt you. _ And he wants to lie here with the other's face pressing against his own for a moment longer, wants to bury himself in the comfort he gets from it, but he knows his moments here are numbered: "Need… Maribel."

With perfect timing, the other woman walks in; Roger leans back and looks as if he is about to leave, but Rafa keeps his grip on the other man's hand as steady as he can while reaching toward his sister.

"I didn't want you to see me like this," he tells her, and he can see her eyes watering, her lips mouthing the word  _ idiot _ . "I should have told you. I'm sorry I didn't. But now you know. And… I have something to ask of you now that you do. Both of you."

"Anything," Roger says softly.

He tightens his hold on their hands; when he speaks, his voice is slow and thick: he needs to cast around for each word he wants to say, and it pains him that language should be so difficult now. "Don't… don't forget the man I used to be."

Maribel presses his hand against her cheek; he can feel wetness on his knuckles but he does not mind. "Never, Rafa."

"You are still that man," Roger murmurs.

And he can breathe easily again: he wonders, he wonders if they will ever know how much their vow means to him, how important it is to him for others to remember him as how he once was; it is his greatest fear that when he dies, he will be nothing to anyone but a crumpled body—it is why he couldn't bear to let Maribel see him like this, why he couldn't tell her the truth; he wanted to leave her memories of him untainted, and yet if they are true to their word, they will remember, they will remember.

Remember, because he himself will forget, because for him memory is a luxury he no longer has access to. "I'm sorry I won't know who you are soon," he whispers. "Maribel—you-you're brilliant. And Roger…" There is so much he wants to tell him, but there is no way he can possibly put all of it in words, and so he settles on the simplest phrase there is: "Still love you."

"Forever," Roger whispers in reply.

He closes his eyes and squeezes both of their hands briefly before letting go, and as the haze settles in he can hear Maribel give a startled "Hey, Rafa?" and Roger emit a choked sob: _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you both so much and I can't even recognize you anymore, forgive me, I love you_ , he thinks but cannot say, and when he opens his eyes again the two people by his bedside are nothing more than strangers with tear-streaked faces.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll keep this short as not to mess the mood of this chapter but thank you so much to cal for pushing me to write this and everyone who read and left comments. you inspire me. i'm sorry i cannot reply to each and every one of you but it really means a lot! i appreciate you guys telling me that i managed to pull some heartstrings out of you all :)
> 
> anyway, one last chapter left! let me know what you think :)

**Author's Note:**

> >:)
> 
> my works are compiled under [author has ordered a ride to church tag](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/author%20has%20ordered%20a%20ride%20to%20church).


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